


Jupiter's Lovers

by Blankdice



Category: Cowboy Bebop
Genre: Intersex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Unintentional drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 21:37:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11449533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blankdice/pseuds/Blankdice
Summary: Gren faces Vicious, on that roof on Callisto. There is no one to distract either of them this time, but things still don't go as planned.This is the one where I twist canon as hard as I can in an attempt to make it all okay. It's horribly sappy, there are dramatic conversations and awkward silences, there is mythology, wounds both old and new, and maybe a little bit of sunshine.





	1. Callisto

**Author's Note:**

> A few things before we start:
> 
> 1\. This is a version of events where the Bebop crew never came to Callisto when they did, and the story rolls on from there.  
> 2\. My Gren in this story is intersex. I know this is iffy when it comes to canon.  
> 3\. The explicit rating is for chapter 4. FYI.
> 
> Please consider a comment if you liked it! They make me weep with gratitude because Gren isn't the only drama queen in here.

“There’s nothing there to believe in,” Vicious said. 

The cold wind blew around Gren’s ankles, briefly pushed his hair in his face. It was cold up here, colder than usual simply because they were so high up, and there was no ugly apartment block to shield the cutting wind. The only thing here was them and the wind and the view, so wide and blue it made Gren’s eyes ache.

He kept his aim steady, though he wasn’t sure how long he could keep his hands from shaking. It was a pretty stand-off they had, the three of them on top of this building, and it could never last.

“Nor is there a need to believe,” Vicious finished. The expression on his face was familiar. Cold, smooth. Gren had been convinced, once, that it had been nothing but a mask, and one he so desperately wanted to look behind. 

He pulled the trigger, almost before Vicious had even finished talking. He no longer believed in hidden depths. He no longer believed in Vicious. He missed, and he told himself it was because the damn man was too fast. He kept shooting, growing more angry with every shot, and he kept missing.

Right up until the moment when one of his shots connected, and there was suddenly blood on the roof, and a body like so many others, cooling rapidly in Callisto’s chill. 

It wasn’t the first man Gren had killed. The shape of the body was familiar, a discarded pile of limbs. Black hair, black coat. There was no time for regret.

Vicious ducked behind a half-finished concrete pillar and Gren cursed. The only advantages he had were surprise, range, and time. He had spent the first, and the second was no good if Vicious insisted on hiding. If he was still anything like the Vicious Gren had known, he prefered his fights up close, which meant fighting in close quarters was something to be avoided. 

Gren spared a last glance as the poor soul, the boy whose name he didn’t even know but who died at his hands, and then he ran. Not away, but around. He’d learned a few things over the years. One of those was shooting while running, or while sliding down a sandy dune, or while doing pretty much anything, really. Sometimes it paid to multitask.

He circled around the pillar at a distance, shooting whenever he caught a glance of a black coat, trailing ever so slightly behind the man himself. They’d made a full circle of the pillar when Gren realised the bag of red eye was gone. 

And there was his final advantage.

He stopped circling, took a few steps back.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he called, “are you here to kill me?”

“Why?” Vicious replied, from behind his pillar. “Are you so eager to die?”

Gren shifted, making sure he had a line of sight on the stretch of naked concrete between the pillar and Vicious’ fighter. “I’m a loose end for you,” he said. “It must drive you crazy. You were always so particular.”

“You’re a drug deal,” Vicious said. “Nothing more.”

There was a brief movement from behind the pillar. Gren waited, holding his aim steady. He needed to know for sure, before he did anything else. 

It was painful, to hear those words. Not because he believed they were true. After all, rigging the payment of a mundane little drug deal to explode was a waste of both effort and money. It hurt because this was not about the drug deal anymore, it was about everything between them and those words were meant to cover it all, they were meant to hurt. Still, Gren said: “Do you blow up everyone you sleep with, then, or am I special?”

“You still love to hear yourself talk,” Vicious said. Something moved on one side of the pillar and Gren turned his aim on it. It was a pebble, a piece of broken stone. He turned again, and there Vicious was, bag of red eye in one hand and unsheathed sword in the other, halfway to his fighter. 

Gren shot, the bullet whipping past in front of Vicious’ face.

The man stumbled back. “Still an awful shot, too.” He straightened, turned towards him, that cool expression firmly in place. “Or are you having trouble shooting a comrade?” he said, sarcasm shining through the chill.

It was the perfect shot. Vicious was just standing there, too far to be effective with his blade but close enough that Gren really couldn’t miss. Vicious wasn’t moving and Gren’s hands were steady, and still, the moment stretched.

He couldn’t do it.

Vicious was right, and he couldn’t do it, now that he knew it would be final. Gren smiled, let his hands drop. “Now you’re my comrade again,” he said, “when it suits you.”

“You shouldn’t aim a gun at someone unless you’re willing to finish it,”Vicious said. He took a step forward, shifting his grip on his katana, all his tension turning into focus, into the moment before a strike. Something clicked by his left hand.

The two of them stood frozen for a moment. From the bag of red eye, the beginning notes of Julia played, tinny and metallic and slightly muffled by the cloth. It took Gren back, like it always did, to sand and gritty heat and explosions all around him.

Vicious dropped the bag, took two stumbling steps away from it and when Gren looked at him, at his face, he saw the mask had slipped. What he saw there was, plainly put, shock. Wide eyes, mouth wordlessly open. A hidden depth revealed. The last time Gren had seen behind that mask was three years ago. Maybe he hadn’t imagined it, after all.

“What-” Vicious managed before the red eye blew up in his face. 

The sound hit Gren like a sledgehammer, and he was so close that the shock knocked him off his feet, air hot and stinging with gravel and glass whipped over him. He held up his arms, more out of instinct than anything else. This was it, this was where he finally died, and it was going to have to be worth it, because at least he’d taken Vicious down with him one last time. 

He waited a heartbeat, and then another, and then he realised the worst was over. There was a strange buzzing at the edge of his hearing and his heart was pounding in his throat but he was still here. 

Gren opened his eyes on smoke and blue skies. He rolled over, found himself face to face with a crumpled pile of black and grey, an arm extended, hand still grasping the sword. Vicious wasn’t moving. 

Whether he was still breathing was hard to tell, so Gren crept closer, unable to hear his own footsteps over the humming in his ears. He knelt, pushed the hair away from Vicious’ face and found the man’s eyes closed, his face almost peaceful. There were tiny white marks on Vicious’ face, like a sprinkling of dust, and as Gren watched they darkened, one of them producing a single red dot. Gren pulled his hand away and found similar marks on the palms of his hands. 

Glass. Glass shards from the red eye. The bag was nothing but ash, its contents burnt and pulverised and turned into stinging mist. 

He wiped his hands on his dress and they ached, glass splinters digging into his skin. Not just glass, either. The edges of his vision were going foggy, and the center unnaturally sharp. 

This was not how red eye was meant to be used, but it turned out it still worked, in a way. Not long now before Gren doubted he could fly safely, and if he could no longer fly safely there was no way off this building short of jumping. 

He turned to Vicious and saw, with a clarity that was mostly drugs but something else as well, that the man was still breathing. 

He’d been unable to shoot him and he’d been unsuccessful in blowing him up and it really shouldn’t be a surprise, least of all to himself, but he reached out, hooked his arms under Vicious’ and dragged him bodily into his pod. 

By the time it started snowing, there was no one left alive on the roof of the building. It was only a light snowstorm, and it covered the blackened cement, Lin’s body. Snowflakes dusted his bare face, sat there without melting. The fighter Vicious had flown down stood abandoned. 

No one came to look. At least, not yet. Explosions on Callisto were rarely something people walked towards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lack of wodka is a reference to Faye. In this timeline she was never on Callisto, so it's more a fun detail for the benefit of readers. A little nod to canon. Right before I toss it in a dumpster.


	2. Io

Gren spent the next few hours hours in a fog. Unable to sleep, unwilling to leave his apartment, he mostly paced and stared at his injured hands. He could see each tiny shard of glass, but his hands shook so much, he didn’t dare to try and get them out. All he’d do was make it worse. 

It was hard to keep track of time, which seemed to move more slowly than usual and then skip ahead whenever he closed his eyes. In the end, what he could have sworn was half an eternity passed in the space of an afternoon. He knew the exact moment he started coming down from the drugs, because he was pacing in front of his piano, shaking his hands to get the nervous energy out, and the next second he just stopped, dead on his feet.

It was like being caught in an explosion all over again. All of a sudden he was exhausted, and thirsty, and a headache was creeping up on him from somewhere behind his eyes. Gren sank into a chair and sighed. 

When he opened his eyes again, he was groggy and his shoulders were stiff. His hands still ached, and he knew he should do something about that soon. 

It took him a moment to realise Vicious was in the room with him.

At first he thought there was something off with the heating, or maybe a sound from a neighbouring apartment he was unable to pin down. It had been years, after all, since he’d learned and forgotten how to tell Vicious was there, just by the change in tension in the air around him. 

It was still unmistakable, once he realised what it was. 

“I’d offer you a drink,” Gren said, “but someone finished all my vodka.”

Vicious was quiet. That was not unusual, not for the Vicious Gren had known. If he’d still been the same Gren, he would’ve kept talking, filling the silence and hoping for something to catch Vicious’ attention. But he was tired, so he just sat, rolled his head in an attempt to work the stiffness out of his neck. 

Vicious turned, footsteps muffled on the ugly green carpet. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Do you remember that time on Titan, when I pulled you out from a waterfall of sand?” Gren turned, found Vicious standing awkwardly, bags under his eyes and pinpricks of blood on his cheek. He’d left his coat somewhere, and was standing there in just in his charcoal button-up shirt. “That was the only time you’ve ever thanked me. I suppose I did it for that man.”

“That man is dead,” Vicious said.

“That’s all right.” Gren smiled. “So is the man who saved him.”

“I could kill you now,” Vicious said, all but swaying on his feet, clothes rumpled from being passed out in them and obviously injured in the way a wild animal could be. Hurting, but twice as dangerous. 

Gren turned away. “So do it,” he said. He waited a moment, but there was no movement behind him so he pushed himself up from the chair and went in search of a pair of tweezers and some disinfectant. 

He found them, as well as his borrowed dress lying discarded in a corner, in his bathroom. The dress was dusty, flecked here and there with black ashes and rusty brown. He had already forgotten changing out of it, and judging by the stains it had not been an easy process. It was ruined, so he decided to use it as a towel as he dug glass out of his skin.

He had successfully managed to extract four tiny bits of glass and tear open five stinging holes in his left palm when the bathroom door opened. 

“You’re gonna have a problem with the other hand,” Vicious observed.

“You’re welcome to help,” Gren said. “In fact,” he looked up, noted that Vicious still looked miserable, “that might be a good idea if I’m to help you with your face.”

Vicious frowned, but made to indication of replying so Gren flashed him a half-hearted smile and turned his attention back on his hands.

The two of them were silent for a moment and it was almost companionable. Despite everything, there was a large part of Gren’s subconscious that registered the man’s presence as a good thing, a comrade, someone to watch his back and that part was more at ease than it had been in a long time. It was tempting to lean into the silence, let it turn comfortable. 

It was also a bad idea, but he was just tired. He’d been ready to die today and now it seemed that wasn’t happening, he just couldn’t be bothered to put his guard all the way back up. Not when Vicious was right there, watching him, leaning against the doorframe, clearly just as tired.

“You’ll catch the wrong kind of attention if you keep me here,” Vicious said, halfway through the removal of a particularly stubborn bit of glass.

“I’m not keeping you anywhere,” said Gren.

“Then why bring me here?” Vicious snapped and it was angry, rough around the edges and so different from his earlier near-monotone that Gren looked up. “Why set a trap you didn’t have the heart to spring?” Vicious continued. “Why shoot if you never wanted to hit? What was this to you, a game? A suicide mission?”

Gren stood up a little straighter, looked Vicious in the eyes. “I did want to kill you.” He added, a little quieter: “I truly believed I did.”

“And then?” Vicious demanded.

“It’s always easier to hate someone when they’re not there,” Gren said. “You forget they’re a person and you start thinking they were only ever bad. The moment I saw you, the moment I really saw you,” he shrugged.

“You don’t hate me,” Vicious said, and Gren couldn’t tell if he was finishing his sentence or asking a question.

“No,” Gren said, “not really.” He looked down, dabbed a bit of blood off his palm.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Gren said, tweezers grasping at the stubborn glass splinter once more. “I’m not exactly happy with you. You’ve broken my trust pretty effectively. I suppose I never should’ve trusted you in the first place.” With a final tug, he pulled the splinter free, dropped it on a paper towel in the sink. 

“You should hate me,” Vicious said.

“I agree,” said Gren. Vicious let out a breath, and when Gren looked, he was almost smiling. Not that there was any cheer on his face, but his lips were curled, his head tilted. He was still frowning, more out of confusion than anger. He was silent, but this time it looked like Vicious was silent just because he didn’t know what to say.

He remained there, watching as Gren fished the glass out of his left hand. Vicious’ eyes on him were an added weight to his presence, turning the tension into a nearly tangible thing. It wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable, it was just impossible to ignore. All the time Gren was focused on cleaning up the mess that was his hands, he was also watching Vicious from the corner of his eyes, listening to the rustle of cloth as he shifted against the doorframe. 

He still managed all right, until he shifted hands. He was already tired, his eyes ached from staring at the tiny glimmer of glass in his skin, and now he was trying to pry bits of slippery glass free with his non-dominant hand. 

It was only a matter of time before he slipped, jabbing himself with the sharp end of the tweezers. Gren hissed, fought the urge to rub his palm on his trousers. That would only drive the glass deeper. By the doorframe, Vicious shifted, crossed his arms. 

Gren slipped again, only moments after the first time. It stung, and if he was going to keep this up his palm would soon be bleeding so much he’d be unable to make anything out.

Vicious stepped into the bathroom, held out a hand. “Give me that,” he said.

Without a second thought, Gren passed over the tweezers. He wondered, for a moment, if tweezers could be considered a weapon and if so, if he’d just handed Vicious a weapon. Then Vicious reached out for Gren’s right hand, wrapped his fingers around his wrist.

“I could ask you why you’re doing this too,” Gren said. Vicious was tilting his hand this way and that, looking for the glitter of glass. “You were perfectly willing to hand me a bomb, and now you’re patching me up.”

“It’s pathetic,” Vicious mumbled. “Watching you stab yourself with these. Murder is one thing, this is embarrassing.” He fell silent, plucking splinters from Gren’s hand with a speed that suggested he’d done this before. “Anyway,” he added, “the bomb was not my idea.”

Gren hummed in the back of his throat. ‘That’s good to know,’ he wanted to say, or maybe: ‘But you still did it.’ He wanted to tell Vicious that all the good intentions in the world didn’t make much of a difference when the result was the same, or that following orders was a terrible excuse and he should know better.

He wanted nothing more than this companionable silence.

He watched Vicious’ hands. They were paler than his now, if only by a little. It had been hard to tell the difference on Titan, where everything was covered in a fine layer of yellow dust but here, over the white sink, the difference in shades was clear. Vicious’ fingers worked efficiently, with unending focus. They were gentle even, never prodding more than necessary, not even pinching Gren’s wrist when he held his hand still.

No matter how gentle he was, it still hurt. It ached in the way his legs ached when he had been forced to stand still for hours and hours, and he was starting to wonder if the floor would be such a bad place to sit. It reminded Gren of breaking the atmosphere over Titan and staring into that black void and wondering what it would be like to call the void down instead of up, what it would be like to fall.

He sat still, docile even as Vicious shifted his grip, uncurled his fingers for a better look. At first glance, Gren saw nothing, but Vicious took his time regardless, brushing a thumb along each finger and drawing out the splinters where he found them. 

“I think you’re done,” Vicious said abruptly, still holding Gren’s hand. 

Gren looked up, but Vicious refused to meet his eyes. He just stood, face tilted down, silver hair a tangled mess. Gren curled his fingers, intending to trap Vicious’ thumb, but the moment he moved Vicious jerked his hands away, as if he was touching an open flame. 

He dropped the tweezers in Gren’s hand and turned, but Gren caught him by the shoulder.

“You can’t go running around with glass in your face,” Gren said. 

For a moment, by the tension in Vicious’ shoulder, he expected the man to snap at him. Then Vicious turned, held up his head, that indifferent look firmly in place. “Make it quick,” he said. He was the perfect picture of calm, cold disinterest. His shoulders were tense enough that Gren could feel every shift in his posture. 

“No promises,” Gren murmured. He reached up, brushed the hair out of Vicious’ face. It was longer than he was used to, but only by a little. Long enough that it fell past his jaw, long enough that Gren could easily tuck it behind the man’s ear.

“Hang on,” he said as he wiped Vicious’ face clean with a wet cloth, and Vicious was quiet, stony. The left side of his face was worst off. That had been the side he’d been holding the bag and even though he’d dropped it, it seemed he’d never quite turned his face towards it. It was just as well, as that meant his hair had shielded him from a good deal of the blast. 

“You’ve gotten a lot quieter,” Vicious said, between splinters.

Gren looked over, but Vicious’ face was emotionless as ever. “How do you mean?”

“Used to be,” said Vicious, “you’d have take this as an opportunity to tell me all about,” he rolled his eyes, “I don’t know, your mother’s cat.”

“Her name was Juno,” Gren said. “The cat, I mean.”

“I know,” said Vicious. “You wouldn’t shut up about her. You’ve gotten quiet.”

“I suppose,” said Gren. He leaned back in, tweezers at the ready, aware that picking at Vicious’ splinters would effectively shut him up. “You’ve gotten more chatty, though that wasn’t exactly hard.”

Vicious huffed out a breath, and then was still again. When Gren glanced up, his eyes were closed. 

“What did you do with my fighter?” Vicious said, a little while later.

Gren paused, one hand resting on Vicious’ cheek. “I left it on that rooftop.”

Vicious sighed. “Lin as well?”

“Was that your friend?” Gren asked.

“Subordinate,” said Vicious. He opened his eyes, looked down. “His loyalty was always going to get him killed.”

“I’m sorry I shot him,” Gren said, softly.

“You would be.” Vicious raised a hand, pushed Gren away. “Are you done?”

Gren considered telling him no. It was a childish impulse, and he knew exactly where it was coming from. “Almost,” he said. “Two more, I think.” He reached out once more, pulled the skin over Vicious’ cheek a little tighter, so he could get a better grip on the glass. 

When he was done, throwing the tissues in the trash and washing his hands, Vicious turned and stalked away. A moment later, the front door slammed and the apartment felt instantly empty, hollow. 

Gren let out a sigh, turned off the tap and lowered his face into his wet hands. It was all the same, anyway, and there was no point in drying something that would be wet again so soon. He caught his breath after a moment, washed his hands again and splashed some water into his face for good measure. 

He was left feeling empty, which made him angry. At himself, mostly, and at the longing which he supposed had never really gone away. As usual, when he was feeling things he’d rather not, he turned to music.

He was still at his piano when his front door unlocked and Vicious came strolling right back in.

“You didn't knock,” said Gren, trying to cover just how shaken he was by Vicious’ reappearance. He'd stopped playing in the middle of a bar and it was quiet now.

“You had a spare key by your piano,” said Vicious. For a moment, he looked like a deer in the headlights. His eyes were wide, his face was pale although that could just be his complexion. He turned, shrugged out of his coat.

Gren watched him for a moment before setting his fingers down on the keys again. A different tune, full of memories. It was probably a bad choice to play it for Vicious, but the man said nothing, just hung up his coat and came to stand uncomfortably close to where Gren was sitting. He glanced over and Vicious was looking at his pictures, frowning.

“I didn't think you'd come back,” said Gren, adding little flourishes to tune he'd called Goodnight Julia.

“I'm here to warn you,” Vicious said. “This may be the edge of civilisation, but that stunt with the red eye will be enough to catch the Syndicate’s attention even here.” He reached out, lifted a picture to get a better look at the one underneath. “You've blown your cover.”

“Good to know,” Gren said, and kept playing.

It was a problem, but only in an abstract kind of way. Gren closed his eyes, let his fingers do the work and let himself drift on the music.

The first time he'd heard that tune felt like a lifetime ago. He'd have thought it impossible to feel so much older in the span of three years, but here he was. He was so tired.

“You should leave as soon as you can,” Vicious said.

“Hm,” Gren went.

Vicious turned. “Stop playing that,” he said, the calm cracking when his mouth twisted briefly with displeasure. “I don't think you understand. The Syndicate isn't some small-time asteroid belt dealer playing at gang wars. They are organised, and they are ruthless, and they don’t stop once they've got their eye on someone. It’s the one thing they’ve got right in their antiquated code of conduct.” He curled a lip, spat out: “Loyalty. Honour. It’s all pointless.”

“You've really got a problem with people who believe in something,” Gren remarked.

“What’s the point in honour when you’re dead?” Vicious said. 

Gren turned his chair, found himself needing to look up at Vicious. He was still standing too close, so close Gren could feel the cold air he had brought in from outside. “Some people would argue honour trumps death.”

Vicious looked away from the pictures, eyes meeting Gren’s. “Those people are dead.”

“Is that why you sold me out?” Gren asked. There was something about Vicious’ eyes. Cold, yes, but not in the same way his usual expression was. That one was a mask, something put on to cover another emotion. This was what lay beneath, and Gren wasn’t at all sure he liked it. “So you could go free?”

Vicious was silent for a moment, and then he broke eye contact, turned his head away. He was halfway through the motion of stepping away when Gren’s hand on his shirt stopped him in his tracks.

“Is that why you did it?” Gren said, quietly. “Because you don’t care about loyalty, or companionship, because you only cared about saving your own skin?”

“You’re sentimental,” Vicious said. 

“I want to hear you say it,” Gren said, fingers tight on the fabric of Vicious’ shirt.

Vicious took his wrist and wrenched himself free of Gren’s grasp. “No,” he said, and Gren didn’t know which question he was answering. He knew that Vicious was holding him too tight, and that his hands were cold, and that he was standing right next to the photo of the two of them on Titan. He knew he wanted nothing more than to reach out, fold his hands over Vicious’, warm them up. He knew it would most likely be the other way around, with Vicious freezing him to the core.

He reached out, wrapped his fingers around Vicious’ and pried his hand free.

“You’ve been crying,” Vicious said. His expression was the same, his tone of voice unchanged. His fingers were slack, suddenly.

“As you said, I’m sentimental,” said Gren. “Not like you, purely utilitarian.”

“You should take an example from me,” Vicious said. His fingers were still tangled with Gren’s. “Do yourself a favour and start running.”

Gren wanted to tell him that there was no point, that he was tired, that no amount of running would make him feel safe again. Instead, he said: “I take it you’ll be running away, too.”

Vicious shook his head. “I’m going back to the Syndicate.” 

“Why?” said Gren. 

Vicious looked at him, pulled his hands away and turned. For a man who never smiled, he had a surprising array of facial expressions, most of them a variation on displeased.

“Do you think they’ll send you again, or someone else?” Gren threw an arm over the back of his chair. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you when I die.”

“Dammit, Gren,” Vicious said, and it was the third time that day he had said his name. Gren sucked in a breath. “Why won’t you run?”

“I wouldn't know where to go,” Gren said. “I have no money. I’m tired, Vicious.”

He looked up, calm like a man facing his executioner and Vicious looked down at him. After a moment, he looked away, closed his eyes and said, with about as much enthusiasm as a man about to stick a hand into a snake pit: “First Ganymede, then the asteroid belt. You’ll be hard to track that way. I can get you passage for the second half of the trip.”

“What?” said Gren.

“Pack now,” said Vicious. “We don’t have long.”

“I thought you weren’t running away,” Gren said, head reeling.

Vicious scowled and started pulling tacks from pictures. “I’m not,” he said. “I’ll be returning, after.”

“Why,” Gren swallowed, “why do you suddenly care?”

“You’re throwing your life away,” Vicious muttered. “It’s pointless. It’s worse than pointless, it’s stupid.”

“And it’s different from you cutting me down?”

“It’s different,” Vicious insisted, “because this would be pointless.”

“Weren’t you just saying everything was pointless?” Gren said. 

Vicious ducked his head, thrust a stack of photographs at him, and kept pulling pins from the wall. 

Gren looked down, at his own face caught in the sepia that was Titan. “Thank you,” he said.

It took him less than an hour to pack. Some clothes, his saxophone, his photos and a few odds and ends. The saxophone took up most of the space, and he could feel the way Vicious looked at it. Disapprovingly. Still, he didn’t stop Gren from loading it into his little zipcraft. It was sentimental, then, but not quite inexcusable.


	3. Juno

In absolute terms, Callisto wasn't close to anything. Not to any of the other inhabited moons, all of which were were in the inner ring, closer to Jupiter's gate. Callisto was the odd one out, the loner. It was part of why Gren had settled there.

Due to a quirk of the moons’ relative orbit, however, Callisto and Ganymede were closer now than they would be for another month, close enough from Gren to load his bag and his saxophone and his morose passenger into his zipcraft and ferry the whole business over to Ganymede in a matter of hours. 

They rose over Blue Crow. It was a bright day, inasfar as a day on Callisto could be described as a single thing. The days were long enough that they were usually many things. Today, it was bright and snowy, and the roads below them were black lines in the landscape. Clouds and smoke rolled over the landscape, which fell ever further below as they rose.

Callisto sometimes reminded Gren of Titan. The length of a day, the odd monochrome. Titan was sepia but Callisto was black and white and just a little bit of blue. On Titan, he’d been happy despite the war and Callisto, whatever else it was, would always be the place that came after. 

Gren took a last look below, while some of the buildings were still visible. He wouldn’t miss his apartment, with the heating that never seemed to work right and the damp that crept in, no matter the weather. He wouldn’t miss the snow, or the way all the colours seemed to bleed out of things until it seemed he was always looking at pictures and trying to remember what things really looked like.

Still, that hadn’t been everything. There’d been the bar, and if there was anything he’d miss, it would be that. His little space in the back, next to Michael on the piano. The bar stool where Julia had sat. Even Jun, who had the foulest temper but who could always manage to make a bottle of moonshine taste close to something people drank for fun. 

“People are going to wonder where I went,” Gren said, and tore his eyes away from Blue Crow. Above, which he mentally reassigned as in front of him as he flew, was space. “I should have said goodbye.”

“No,” Vicious said, from behind him. Gren hadn’t bought this thing with the intention of bringing along a passenger often. He expected it wouldn’t be long before Vicious started complaining about the seat. “Best they know as little as possible. I’m surprised you didn’t say goodbye before your grand plan.”

Gren fell silent, contemplated the black void in front of him. They were out of the atmosphere now, so he turned, kept Callisto to the left and started plotting a course inwards, towards Jupiter and the inner moons.

“Don’t tell me you expected to live through that, it was a suicide plan,” Vicious said. He sounded annoyed, but without seeing his face, Gren couldn’t guess why.

“No,” he admitted. “I didn’t. And I figured it would be best if they knew as little as possible.”

Vicious hummed. “So you’ve got some sense yet. Despite the fact it was a horrible plan from start to finish.”

“Okay,” said Gren, “while we’re on that subject, are you ever going to answer my question?”

“Which one?” Vicious said. “You ask so many.”

“Why did you do it?” Gren clenched his hands on the controls. “Betray me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Vicious. “Was Julia really here?”

“Yes,” Gren said. “She hated you. If what she told me is true, you deserved it.”

Vicious was quiet for a moment. On the far edge of Callisto, the orange bulk of Jupiter started coming into view. “I do,” he said, finally.

“Did you really try to kill her?”

“Yes,” Vicious said. Gren waited, but that seemed to be all.

“So you do have it out for everyone you sleep with,” Gren said and smiled to himself. 

“Change the subject,” Vicious demanded.

“Fine.” Gren locked his craft into cruise control, twisted in his seat. “Why are you helping me now, when you were ready to kill me? Is it the same reason why you still haven’t found Julia? Can’t decide what to do with her, either?”

“This is not changing the subject,” Vicious said and he was frowning, no, scowling at full force.

“Okay, forget about Julia.” Gren glanced over his shoulder at his trajectory, then back at Vicious. “Just answer the first part. Why are you helping me, when you’ve done nothing but wreck my life whenever you appear in it?”

“Is that what you think?” Vicious said.

“Why?” said Gren.

Vicious crossed his arms, seemed to duck into himself. He was quiet, but in the way of someone who was thinking, not someone who was stubbornly withholding information. Gren turned again. Not looking where he was going for too long made him nervous.

As soon as his back was turned, Vicious said: “Because this time, I can.”

Gren twisted, looked at Vicious, but he was staring out at space, still frowning. “You couldn’t when I went to prison? When you gave me a bomb?” He wasn’t sure whether he was angry or surprised, or something else altogether. His memories were a hard lump, more present than they had in ages and while that wasn’t a surprise, with Vicious as close as he was, he hadn’t been expecting everything to still feel so fresh.

“Change the subject,” Vicious said, almost distractedly.

“No,” said Gren. “I need to know why.”

Vicious turned. His eyes were calm, cool. “What difference does it make why I did what I did? It doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes who you are now,” Gren said. “It changes whether I can trust you.”

“You can’t,” Vicious said. “You shouldn’t.”

“Then tell me you did it because you wanted me dead, and that you’re doing this for no reason other than,” Gren faltered, “well, I don’t know why you’re doing this.”

“I did it because it was going to happen anyway,” said Vicious. His mouth twisted. “Don’t ask me for any particulars, but it was going to happen no matter what.”

“So it might as well have been you telling the lie?” said Gren.

“You only got ten years, didn’t you?” Vicious said, and his eyes were colder than ever. “Not that you sat them out.”

“Are you telling me it could’ve been worse?” Gren said, and he was pretty sure by now he was angry. He stared at space, Vicious’ reflection a ghost in the glass of the pod. “Do you know what it was like? Do you know what it did to me, being in there, knowing you were the one who put me there?”

“It could have been worse,” said Vicious. He sounded too close. The craft they were in was too small, the air stifling. “It can always be worse. You’re still alive, and so am I.”

“Survival isn’t the only thing that matters.”

“You’ve made your stance on that clear, trying to set a trap for me.” Vicious snorted. “Playing with the Syndicate is asking for a slow death.”

“Courtesy of a bomb you gave me,” said Gren.

“I didn’t know that was you,” Vicious countered. “If I knew it was you, I would’ve stopped it, and Syndicate be damned.”

“So it’s fine then, because you thought I was some woman you didn’t know?”

“Yes,” Vicious snapped, “because I didn’t care. Is that what you want to hear? I thought you were a stranger and I didn’t care if a stranger died. Strangers die all the time, what’s it to me? You can’t expect me to care about every damn stranger, I’d never get anything done.”

Gren laughed, briefly. “I can expect you not to go killing people just because they’re in the way.”

“Then people shouldn’t get in the way.” 

“Oh yes,” Gren said. “How dare they make things inconvenient for you.”

“This isn’t a case of convenience, this is a case of,” Vicious faltered, “which life matters more to me. I will always choose myself over a stranger.”

“What, would you be forced to hold the bomb yourself if you didn’t give it away?”

“No,” said Vicious. “I’m already holding a bomb.”

Gren forced himself to let go of the craft’s controls, shook the cramp out of his fingers. “Courtesy of your Syndicate?”

“You’d do well not to ask for details.”

“You said this was their plan. Was the bomb their idea?”

“I’m warning you,” said Vicious. “These are not things that are safe to know.”

“You keep telling me you can’t be trusted,” Gren said. Jupiter was ahead of them now, growing steadily as they soared over the surface of Callisto. “Who’s to say you’re not about to betray me again, and what does it matter what I know then? After all, you’ve done it before.”

“So it’s best not to know,” said Vicious.

Gren sighed. He rubbed a hand across his face. His palm was still sore, but in the way of a healing wound. Vicious had done a good job, and left no splinters behind. That was one thing, at least, he had left to heal cleanly. 

“Change the subject,” Vicious said. The tone of his voice reminded him of Titan, of speaking quietly in a shared tent.

If he broke down now, he’d never hear the end of it, So Gren said: “What do you want to talk about?”

Vicious took a deep breath, sighed it out. “I don’t know, did you know any cats on Callisto?”

“I knew some musicians, that’s almost the same,” said Gren, and told him about Michael, who played jazz piano but was too shy to ever be on a stage on his own. He told him how one of the regulars at the Rester House would sing, but only when he was exactly the right amount of drunk, and how his voice was a low bass that would have gotten him a steady gig if only he could sing when he was sober. He told him about Marius and the drug addict everyone knew was his boyfriend but no one talked about, and how the two of them edited tracks until they sounded like the only thing that mattered. He told him about every mucisian he knew, until he ran out, and then he started telling Vicious about other things. 

It turned out it was hard to stop, once he had started. It was like he hadn’t had anyone to talk to for three years, even though that wasn’t true. Just like on Titan, he kept talking through the tension until it was gone, and then he kept going because he felt so relieved.

“You know, the thing about Callisto,” he said, halfway between Callisto and Ganymede, “one of the things in any case, is that it’s really hard to get things there. I don’t mean that they’re expensive, which they are. I mean that things just aren’t available, no matter how much you try. Sheet music is rare. Little things are impossible to get. Things you don’t really think about until you go to the store and try to get a tea infuser and they give you a very odd look. Chocolate. Binders.”

Vicious made an amused sound. “Office supplies?”

“No,” Gren said, and changed the subject.

“Do you know they named the moons of Jupiter after his lovers?” Gren said, when Ganymede was a fist-sized crescent, the lit side bright blue against Jupiter’s orange.

“His lovers?” Vicious said.

“Jupiter was a god,” said Gren. “Io, Europa, Ganymede, Callisto. They were all secret lovers. And when we finally sent a probe to have a look at Jupiter himself, we called it Juno.” Gren shook his head. “His jealous wife, come to check on him. That’s a special kind of humour. That’s where we got the name for that cat.”

“Jealous,” Vicious muttered. “Jupiter sounds like a terrible husband.”

“Notoriously so.” Gren looked at Ganymede. He’d never been there, perhaps it would treat him better than Callisto had. Perhaps it would be better to leave Jupiter and all his illicit lovers behind. “Maybe I’ll play a song for Juno one day. I’ve always felt for her.”

Ganymede was blue, and warm, and all water. They couldn’t land on water, so they had to circle until they found a place to land, and that only after Vicious placed a call to someone called Tomoe. 

Tomoe’s instructions lead them to a back lot on one of the floating structures, just big enough to land in and take off from. As Gren powered doing his flyer, the sunlight above dimmed and he looked up to find a canvas screen unrolling, covering much of the view of the sky.

“It's so warm here,” Gren said. Even with the awning overhead, the the colours were bright, vibrant.

“Don't let it fool you,” said Vicious. “This place is not much different from Callisto.”

He brushed off his coat, fingers straying to check the sword by his side, and as Gren watched he could see the mask slide back into place. Compared to this, the earlier looks of cold disinterest Vicious had given him were personalised, alive. This was the face of a statue, and Gren wondered how he ever could have doubted the existence of Vicious’ mask.

The man was all business again, perfect and intimidating and cruel, when a door opened onto the lot and a short woman appeared in a blast of French music. She was the kind of woman Gren immediately pictured laughing, singing along to her music, but she was quiet now, face stony.

“Vicious,” she said.

“Passage to the asteroid belt,” said Vicious. “When does the next trawler arrive?”

Tomoe, because Gren assumed that was who she was, narrowed her eyes. “I don't get involved with dragons,” she said. “Bad for business.”

“This is a personal matter.” Vicious gestured, something between dismissal and appeasement. “They are not involved.”

“Bad things always get involved when I help you.” Tomoe glanced at Gren, a spark of curiosity in in her eyes. “Either this is by command of the dragons, or you're going against their orders. Both ways mean I'm screwed if they ever come asking.”

“They won't come asking,” said Vicious and added, before she could protest: “You know I pay well. As this will be a personal favour, I'll pay you extra.”

Tomoe sighed. She sagged a little, cast her eyes to the partially hidden sky. Finally, she said: “Dusk. That's the next one. Three fifty for two one way tickets.”

“One ticket,” Vicious said. 

Gren smiled, looked down. “How long until dusk?”

Tomoe looked directly at him for the first time and said. “Twenty-three hours. I can get you a hotel room while you wait.” Her voice seemed softer when she wasn't speaking to Vicious, the resentment lessening audibly. Or perhaps what Gren was hearing was just pity.

“One room, one ticket,” Vicious said, and Tomoe’s mouth twisted.

“Two fifty,” she said.

“You're ripping me off,” Vicious said calmly. “I'll pay it.”

“You must be desperate.” Tomoe looked between the two of them. “Good. I'll get it set up. Wait here.”

She left, and closed the door behind her with a heavy click that suggested several locks. It left Gren and Vicious standing alone in the courtyard. Vicious was refusing to meet Gren’s eyes again, so he was left looking at the man's profile. He looked tired, severe. His mouth was drawn into a tight line, the dark circles under his eyes deeper than Gren remembered. Still, he found himself thinking. He knew Vicious could smile. He knew what it was like when he finally let those shoulders relax. 

He had so many questions, each of which had seemed to be important enough on its own to justify a mad plan like the one that had gone so wrong, that had landed him here. None of it felt as important as Vicious, in the flesh, standing close enough to touch.

He'd thought he hated Vicious. It turned out what he'd hated most was the fact that he'd left.

“I'll see you to your hotel,” said Vicious, “then I'm taking your flyer and leaving.”

“You can't leave,” Gren said, “without answering my questions. I still have questions.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Vicious.

“Please,” said Gren. “Before you,” he swallowed the end of the sentence, substituted: “You owe me this much.”

“I don't owe you anything.” Vicious hunched his shoulders, resolutely looked anywhere but Gren. “I'll see you to your hotel.”


	4. Ganymede

The hotel in question was barely worth the name. Tomoe tossed him a key once the three of them were inside the building, said: “Get some rest, and be in the lobby at nine,” and disappeared through a door marked ‘staff only’.

Gren assumed that lobby was where they were currently standing. It was a hallway, a tiny desk wedged in between two doors and a staircase at the far end. Gren had seen tents larger than this so-called lobby. The walls were yellowed plaster, the carpet was so faded Gren had no idea what colour it was meant to be. The room he'd been given was a little better. It had the same shabby carpet, but the bed was big enough for two and it was clean.

Gren set his saxophone case on the floor next to the bed, dropped his coat on the bed. It was warmer here than Callisto, warm enough to make his coat feel stifling.

He turned, and Vicious pressed a card into his hand. “We’re even,” he said, “I’m leaving.”

Gren grabbed Vicious arm. “Wait,” he said.

“That’s enough money to get you started wherever you want to go,” Vicious said. “Don’t tell me where you’re going.”

“If you care, don’t leave like this,” said Gren.

Vicious looked up, lifted his eyes to meet Gren’s. He didn’t say anything, but something in his face moved, like he was about to speak. Gren took a step closer, watched the mask waver. There was something there, but he could only get a glance, and it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

“Why did you do it?” Gren asked, quietly. He raised his other hand, caught Vicious’ other arm.

“I was following orders,” said Vicious. He glanced down, looked back into Gren’s eyes, a hard look on his face. “I was saying my own skin. I was,” he faltered. 

Vicious took a deep breath and Gren could see the shift of his shirt, the hollow of his throat. He was so close, he could smell him. Dust and sweat and sulphur. Not so different from Titan, in every way.

Vicious lifted his hands. Gren tightened his fingers in anticipation but Vicious didn’t push him away, just brushed his fingers along Gren’s collar, straightened it out where it had gotten rumpled. “I was afraid,” he said, “that they’d do something worse, that my time would be wasted. I didn’t know how to back out so I decided to keep moving forward, and break everything in my way.” He grimaced, and it wasn’t a smile but there was a kind of dark humour beneath it. “At least that way it would be finished. It’s easier to do what needs to be done when you know you’re already damned.”

It was an admission of guilt. It wasn’t an apology, there wasn’t even a drop of remorse or anything other than calm detachment in Vicious’ voice. But his hands were now on Gren’s shoulders, fingers inching up, digging into Gren’s hair.

“It was never finished,” said Gren.

“No,” Vicious said. “I see that now.”

Gren kissed him. He took one hand away from Vicious’ arm, pulled the man’s face close and kissed him. It was easy. It was exactly like on Titan, so much that he could almost taste the sand. It was also more than that. There were memories between then and now, and pain, and it all stacked up until kissing Vicious felt both familiar and new. Like coming home after a very long time away, and the memories have had just enough time to fade that it’s surprising to see it all again.

Vicious’ mouth was the same, and his hands on Gren’s skin, and the taste of him. The manner was different. Vicious was hesitant, the familiarity of nights together worn away by time and replaced by an uncertainty he’d never had on Titan, not even the first time they slept together. Perhaps it was guilt, perhaps it was the knowledge Gren had every reason to hold a grudge, perhaps it was thoughts of someone else. 

“Gren,” Vicious said.

“I loved you,” said Gren, face pressed against Vicious’ neck. He pressed against him, hand in his hair as if that alone could keep him here. 

“Do you,” Vicious started.

“I don’t anymore,” Gren interrupted him, “but I think I could again.” As easily as kissing him.

“After everything that’s happened,” said Vicious. His fingers were drawing lazy circles on Gren’s neck and it was enough to make him shiver.

“You’re a bastard,” said Gren, “but I believe there’s more to you than that.”

Vicious sighed, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he kissed Gren, and Gren kissed him, until he wasn’t quite sure who was doing what to who, but it was sweet and a little bitter and it was going to be hell letting go.

“Do you want to,” said Gren, when they were already halfway onto the bed and Vicious was trying valiantly to disentangle himself from his coat and his shirt and the same time.

“Yes,” Vicious said.

They fumbled around each other for a moment, and then Vicious’ hands were at Gren’s shirt and both of them paused.

Belatedly, it occurred to Gren that this might be a problem.

“Is this why you never took off your shirt?” Vicious asked. He pulled away, but not entirely. His hands were still on Gren’s shoulders, away from the line of his chest, from the shirt hanging half open.

“Yes,” said Gren, “though I’ve gone up a few sizes since then.” 

Vicious narrowed his eyes, seemed to consider this. “Should I start thinking of you as a woman?”

“No,” said Gren. “That wasn’t voluntary.”

Vicious glanced down, gave Gren a questioning look.

“I’ve always been different,” said Gren, and finished unbuttoning his shirt. If this was a problem, he would rather face it the way he was. He leaned into Vicious some, legs pressed against legs. “It made for an awkward puberty. My time in prison only made it more obvious.” He smiled, and he could feel the expression was rough around the edges.

For some reason, Vicious didn’t ask anything else, just kissed Gren again. His hands were hesitant, though, drifting lower before pulling away, almost chastely.

“Don’t keep your hands to yourself,” Gren said, “not for my sake.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Vicious murmured.

“Think what you want,” said Gren. “Nothing’s changed.” Vicious remained quiet, so he added: “If a man with breasts puts you off, I can put my shirt back on.”

Vicious shook his head. “No need,” he said, and he seemed to have regained his confidence. Enough that he ended on top, lips pressed against Gren’s neck, breathing hard.

Gren reached down, hooked his thumbs into Vicious’ trousers and pulled him close. They were both hard, the friction made Vicious’ breath stutter, made his hips jerk. It was only a matter of moments before he had freed himself and was pressed heavily against Gren’s stomach.

“Slowly,” Gren managed, as Vicious shoved a hand down Gren’s pants. His fingers were warm, slightly rough. His hands had always been warm, as much as he’d claimed to be a cold man. Sometimes, his hands had felt like fire, and Gren all too eager to get burned.

Vicious wrapped a hand tightly around Gren’s cock. “You’re trying to make me stay,” he breathed. 

“Yes.” said Gren, “stay.”

Vicious kissed him, squeezed until Gren had to break away, struggling to breathe. He closed his eyes, pressed himself against Vicious until the man was tempted to let go, if only to take them both in his hand. Gren reached down to cover Vicious’ fingers with his own. 

“Stay,” he whispered as he jerked the both of them off, “just a little.”

They stopped talking so much, and then they lay together for a while. Vicious was curled against Gren, still warm, one arm across Gren’s stomach. Gren held him close, stroked his hair. It felt softer than he remembered, and that was probably due to the lack of grime and grit. Showers on Titan had been rare. If nothing else, that had improved. 

“I can’t stay,” Vicious said, and pulled away. “I have things to do. I have a life.”

“So did I,” said Gren.

Vicious looked at him, and some of the tightness had left his face. The lines under his eyes were still there but his eyes looked open, clear. “I know,” he said. “I can’t believe you don’t hate me. People have hated me for less.”

Gren sighed. He wrapped his arms around himself. It was cold, with Vicious so far away. “I’m a hopeless romantic,” he said.

There was a flicker of a smile on Vicious’ face. Just a moment, just a quirk of his mouth and a wrinkling around the eyes, and then it was gone. “I know,” he said. He bent down where he sat on the edge of the bed, and tossed Gren’s shirt over. “Stay hidden. The Syndicate knows too much about you. I’ll tell them you’re dead, and maybe that’ll be enough to keep them off your trail.”

“I’ll go to,” Gren started.

“Don’t,” Vicious interrupted, “I don’t want to know.”

Gren sat up, looked Vicious in the eyes and said: “I’ll go to Cypress.”

Vicious flinched. He turned away, rubbed his face. “I don’t want to know where you are,” he murmured.

“I want you to know,” said Gren.

“Fine.” Vicious shook his head and stood, finished dressing. Gren watched him, his pale back, his bare feet. Slowly it was all packed away, the creases smoothed out and put back in order. As he tied his tie, Gren could see the mask settling back into place, hiding the Vicious who’d smile, if only briefly. 

Gren shrugged on his shirt and went over to him, wrapped his arms around him. It was enough to make the mask crack, and Gren took a perverse amount of pleasure in that. Vicious looked surprised, and then faintly annoyed, but he suffered being hugged briefly before stepping away to brush out his shirt a second time.

“Remember that time on Titan,” said Gren, “when half the squad was killed in an ambush and we sat together all night because neither of us could sleep?”

“I remember everything,” said Vicious. “You cried.”

“You were very annoyed.”

“No,” Vicious said, “I wasn’t.”

He turned, opened the door. Gren followed, hands itching to reach out, pull him back. Vicious was right, though. He had a life, even if it seemed to Gren it wasn’t one he enjoyed much. He couldn't force the man to stay. He wasn’t sure he should want him to.

Vicious paused. He looked over, expression carefully neutral. “Well then,” he said. “Goodbye. Don’t waste my money.”

Gren smiled. “Thank you for the memories.”

“Don’t start crying,” Vicious said, already turning away.

“No promises,” said Gren, “after all, we have a tendency to break each other’s trust.”

Vicious, already halfway to the staircase, paused. His shoulders were hunched, tense. “Gren,” he said, his voice lower than usual. “You’re a fool to believe in comrades. Even fools are right sometimes..”

Gren stood there silently until Vicious was gone. Then he went back into his room, locked the door and got some sleep. After all, he had a new life to start.


	5. Europa

Vicious returned to the Syndicate nineteen hours after his deadline, with the Van’s messenger boy hot on his heels.

He ignored him, strolled the halls calmly on his way to the audience chamber. 

“Sir,” the boy said, “you're late.”

“I heard you the first time.” Vicious narrowed his eyes, shot him a glance. His name was Han or Hao, he couldn't quite remember or bring himself to care. Either way, the boy physically flinched, his feet faltering before resuming his pursuit.

“Maybe,” the boy said, swallowed, “we shouldn't keep them waiting.”

“Maybe we shouldn't do anything at all,” said Vicious, “and I'll see to my business, while you get out of my way.”

He turned, continued on his way. The footsteps behind him paused for a moment, then continued following a little farther behind. Vicious was left with a tail all the way to the audience chamber, and it was irritating. It made him want to turn and slap the boy. 

Instead, he ignored him as best as he could. That seemed to be harder than it had once been. He was on edge, easily angered, and had to consciously hold on to his cold facade. The boy's footsteps, too light, too fast, were a needle at the back of his head as he walked, one hall to another, one grandiose set of doors before an even more tacky set. 

And then he was standing in front of the triple dais.

“Vicious,” one of the vultures croaked. 

“You're late,” said another.

“I was detained,” Vicious said, shuttering his eyes, one hand on his sword.

“The deal?” said the left one.

“It was a trap,” said Vicious and as he did he could see that they already knew. A hint of a smirk on the middle one's face. “The merchandise was destroyed, as well as Lin. I was forced to stay longer than intended to clean the mess.”

“You didn't have to get your hands dirty,” said the left one, “we have people for that.”

“What of your friend?” said the middle one.

Vicious felt his hand stiffen on his sword. “He was not my friend.”

The corpse in the middle of the dais laughed, dry like fallen leaves. “What of the man who was not your friend, then?”

“He is dead,” Vicious said.

“How does it feel, Vicious?” the middle one continued. “To kill a man who thought of you as a friend. There are precious few of those, and one fewer now.”

“It's irrelevant,” said Vicious. He had to force his hands to relax.

“I see Callisto has failed to warm you,” the left vulture said, and he was wrong. There was something like rage boiling inside Vicious, something he tucked deep below his layers of ice. The old man looked at him a moment longer, a sly smile on his face. It seemed to Vicious that he was being studied, examined for any signs of weakness.

Then the left one said: “Don't be late next time,” and the moment passed.

“Hao,” the right one said, “accompany Vicious to his next appointment.”

“Remember to be careful around snakes,” the middle one said. “The closer you get, the more likely he will strike.”

Vicious turned, leaving the boy to bow and babble at the dais, and let his legs carry him away. 

“Sir,” Hao called after a moment. “We need to be on Europa in a few hours. We should go.”

“Your presence is not required,” said Vicious. He kept walking, aiming his feet toward his ride off the Syndicate’s flagship. 

“Sir, I was ordered,” he said.

“Blindly following orders will not serve you well,” said Vicious. 

Still, he didn't stop the boy from following, didn't stop him from joining him to Europa,of all places. 

He had plenty of time to think on the trip there. It was an odd sort of time, in transit between flagship and moon. The sort of time that didn't feel real. It was time between acts, between chapters, in a weird sort of limbo where things were paused and he was just waiting for the violence to start again.

He usually spent it sleeping, or just staring out ahead of himself, wearing his customary cold like a cloak. 

This time, he spent it looking up Europa. Not the moon, or the old Earth continent. The mythical character, desired by Jupiter. Kidnapped and taken across the sea. Next, he looked up Jupiter himself and from there Io, Callisto and finally Ganymede.

None of the god’s lovers seemed to have fared particularly well, and his wife played no small part in the stories, jealous and vengeful. The more he read, the more he disliked the both of them. Locked together, to no discernible benefit to either of them, doomed to destroy everything they touched.

Except for Ganymede, Jupiter’s beautiful prince, who ended up a constellation where most of the others had ended up deceived and dead.

Perhaps they had deserved each other, these two cruel gods, Jupiter and Juno. Perhaps they had only needed to break apart.

Uncomfortable, Vicious turned once more towards space. It was soothing. Cold and empty and uncaring in the way that everything, everyone was uncaring yet unwilling to admit. Space told him no such lies. It would kill him without hesitation, with an impersonal lack of mercy. Not like men, who wavered and who hesitated. Not like Gren, who had fired but missed every time, and then cried after. 

And yet, there has been no lies there either.

“We will be arriving shortly,” Hao said and Vicious narrowed his eyes at the boy. Hao rocked back, as if something in Vicious’ eyes had struck him physically. “Sir,” he added, a note of hesitation in his voice.

After, Vicious took his sword and ran it along the jacket of a woman who was face down on the floor. It left the lining ruined. The woman had long hair, straight and blonde and dark with blood. For a moment, Vicious wondered where the difference was, what it would have felt like if this body had been Gren’s, face down and bled out, and not some stranger. He couldn't feel guilty over killing a stranger, no matter how much he told himself he probably should.

If it had been him, though. Dark hair and long fingers, familiar enough to stir an unease at the pit of his stomach.

Belatedly, Vicious realised the woman was blonde and his first thought should have been of Julia.

“I loved her,” another woman said by his shoulder.

“Yet you ordered her killed,” said Vicious, sheathed his sword with the finality of a guillotine.

“Well,” the woman, the live one, said. “You just can't trust people. Give them an opportunity and they'll stab you in the damn back.” She looked down at the dead woman, rage twisting her mouth. “Every last one of them.”

“Not everyone,” Vicious said. She looked at him and he imagined for a moment that there was steam when her hot gaze met his cold. 

“Some are too weak,” she hissed.

Like Gren, his mind supplied. Still, he said nothing, just watched her silently until she had to look away.

He would have agreed with her at one time. He would have been the one saying it. He would have been thinking of all the people who had failed to kill him, had failed to try, and he would have known himself stronger than them. Now, when he tried that line of thought, he just felt tired. It was exhausting, constantly thinking of everyone as a potential betrayal.

Nothing like Gren, another part of his mind insisted. The man may be a sentimental idiot, but he was nothing like what this woman was describing. That meant there had to be a third category. It seemed Gren was constantly putting himself in third categories, ones Vicious hadn't even realised existed.

He looked down again at the dead woman, turned and left. None of his business. None of his concern.

On their way back, Vicious closed his eyes. The exhaustion was weighing him down, even outside the gravity well that was Europa. Europa, the kidnapped girl. Io, the hunted one. Callisto, murdered. If Jupiter had ever had any sense, he would have just stopped. If he had ever been as bone-deep weary as Vicious was right now, he should have just stopped.

Two days later, the Van called him into an audience.

“Your old friend has been spotted,” the middle one said.

For a moment, Vicious froze. He had tried. He had covered his trails, paid Tomoe more than he should have. 

All three vultures grinned, as Vicious mentally ran down his steps between here and Callisto. 

“You are not to go near him,” the left one said. 

“It’s an order,” the right one added.

The middle one smiled beatifically. “Someone else will go to Mars and take care of Spike Spiegel.”

A strange mix of relief and sour anger twisted in Vicious’ stomach. He narrowed his eyes. “Why bother telling me?”

“Soon, another of your old friends will be dead,” the middle one said.

“You should know that we are all you have left,” said the left one.

Vicious turned, left the room. There was some sort of commotion behind him, affronted grumbling or laughing or perhaps they were bickering again. They liked to pretend to be a unified front. Vicious knew better. They were vultures, squabbling over a piece of rotting meat. 

He was away before anyone could stop him. He was plotting his course when the anger shifted, moved aside to make room for the exhaustion. On his screen, Mars sat as intended destination. Mars, god of war. Nearly as disastrous as Jupiter himself.


	6. Cyparissus

Cypress was small, composed mostly of miners, farmers and people with something to hide. It was a patch of stacked farmland on an anthill under a glass dish, the dome sitting neatly over a massive palladium deposit and right next to the asteroid’s crust of ice. It was almost self sustaining, given that it only needed to feed a few hundred people. It should have felt claustrophobic, but it felt bigger than Callisto ever had.

It was, however, too small to sustain Gren just on the virtue of his music.

Fortunately, there were always things to do on a asteroid with a limited number of people, and Gren had the good fortune of knowing a little about a lot of things. One of those things turned out to be sensor arrays, transmitters and triggers. Like the ones Vicious had once used to frame him. Like the ones he had used in an attempt to blow the man up.

It was a kind of irony, really.

“You're doing that sad smile again,” said Andrea. 

“I thought people here didn’t pry,” Gren said. He shook his hands, trying to shake the tension out of his fingers. It had been weeks since he’d last played the saxophone. He was only biding his time, and playing piano while he waited. It was a less obvious instrument and that meant it would have to do for now. Once the connection was harder to make, he’d pick up the saxophone again. Until then, the change of instrument and the fiddly work at his day job were leaving his hands aching. 

“I know,” said Andrea. “I’m very impolite.”

He smiled, turned down the street alongside her. The buildings were lined with Cypress’ characteristic vertical planters, row stacked on row of greenery. It almost hid the buildings entirely, except for the windows and the service walkways. One swatch of the building they passed was heavy with unripe tomatoes.

“You are at that,” he said.

“It’s your own fault,” she said, pressed her straw hat down on her head. “You look so sad all the time, it makes me curious. Hey, has anyone told you about the bean festival next week?” She laughed at his incredulous face, added: “Yeah, it was a poor attempt at jazzing up the public image of our beans crops, but there’ll be music and public drunkenness.”

“Sounds like a bit of an event,” said Gren. “I’m astonished I’ve never heard of it.”

“Well, we keep it a secret from outsiders.” Andrea hopped over a piece of badly patched piping, leaking water onto the street. “Have to tell Petra to fix that,” she muttered. “But since you seem to be sticking around, we can let you in on it.”

Gren nodded. With every day that passed, he was adjusting to the idea of staying on this little asteroid. That was just as well, because barring anything particularly unfortunate, he would be spending quite some time here. 

It was hard to feel resentful about it. The place reminded him of his youth on Venus, with its sunlight and greenery. The sunlight was a different colour here, and none of the plants floated, but there was a similar smell in the air: the smell of something growing. Of water and dirt and the leaves that littered the gutters. It was all undercut by a hint of sulphur from the palladium mine. 

As pleasant as it was, he found himself looking at the green walls, the dome above him, and expecting a different view. Not even Callisto, which he would have understood. He’d spent years on Callisto, looking out at the snow. 

No, he kept expecting yellow, tan, beige. Ever since his flight from Callisto, the memories of Titan had been stronger than ever. He dreamt of explosions and gunfire and silver hair in the long night. 

He was lonely here, as lonely as he had been when he’d first gotten to Callisto. Like then, it left him longing for company. The loneliness would fade with time, but he would always be keeping secrets. It was easy to conclude that there would never again be someone who knew him quite so well. 

He was lonely, and he knew it was pointless, that what he wanted most was something that time and distance had made sure he couldn’t have. He still couldn’t stop himself from dreaming, and the dreams where Vicious showed up at his door, wearing the same coat he’d had on Callisto, were the ones that broke his heart.

“You’re doing it again,” Andrea said. “That look. Better be careful, if the wind changes while you’re doing that, your face will be stuck.”

“Who’s to say it hasn’t?” said Gren.

Andrea laughed, and then she whooped, waved both hands at an approaching figure.

Gren stood back as the sisters hugged, then he held up a hand. “I’ll be on my way,” he said, “you two take care.” He had a piano piece to practise, and as friendly as these people were he was longing for some time alone.

“Actually,” said Françoise, when Gren had already turned, “I was looking for you.”

He turned again, mustered up another smile. “What can I do for you?”

“There’s a man here, looking for you,” she said. One of her arms was around Andrea, holding the woman still, away from Gren.

Gren could feel the smile fading from him face. “A man with silver hair?” he asked. Something twisted in his stomach. If it was Vicious, that didn’t mean he was safe. If it wasn’t him, that didn’t mean he was not. He still found himself hoping. 

Françoise shook his head, and Gren’s stomach dropped. “Brown hair,” she said, “face like a thundercloud.”

“What does he want?” said Gren. His fingers were curling, hands balling into fists. 

“No idea, but he came asking for a man with a saxophone.” Fançoise looked down the street. “He’s at the Deer Pub. Go in through the back if you want a look at him before you decide what to do.”

“Thank you,” said Gren.

“Gren,” Françoise said. She looked at him, eyes steely. “Are you in trouble?”

He sighed. “That depends on who he is.”

“Who did you piss off?” Andrea asked. Her sister slapped her lightly on the arm.

Gren shrugged. “With any luck, no one who knows I’m still alive.” 

Françoise gave him another look and for a moment he thought she would ask him the particulars, or even turn away entirely after what was practically an admission of a shady past. Then again, he’d been here for a little over three weeks and though he was a long way from being one of the locals, he was starting to make friends. He’d seen some of Françoise’s scars, the tattoos on his boss’ arms in the colours of the Mars underground. Everyone here had something to hide. 

She sniffed, and said: “How’s your luck been so far?”

“Something of a mixed bag,” he admitted.

“Good luck, then,” she said, and walked away. Andrea waved once before following, and Gren found himself alone.

He turned towards the pub, though he took the back alley route that took him through overhangs of green, soybeans and strawberries blossoming at shoulder height. He ducked under them, pushed through the staff entrance of the Deer Pub. He'd used it twice before when he’d been here as a musician, but always with Françoise, and without her it felt like an intrusion.

Once he was inside, he hesitated. He should start running, and not care about seeing the man who was here to kill him. He should hide himself away, but here he was, too curious not to take a peek. As he stood there, Françoise’s son came down the hall, a crate of empty bottles in in his hands.

The boy paused and whispered: “Did mum tell you?”

“Yes,” said Gren. “What did you tell him so far?”

“Nothing,” he replied, hoisting the crate higher. “Just that we don't know and he can stick around to ask the evening crowd. He's been drinking since.”

Gren nodded and pushed onward. Down the hallway and towards the bar proper, where a heavy curtain hung around the door between the public and private parts of the building. 

He turned off the hall light, opened the door just far enough to look.

By the bar, someone sat hunched over a glass, looking away from Gren. Pale hands, brown hair cut just long enough to fall into his eyes. He looked like no one Gren remembered. 

He shifted, wondered briefly if the heating in the pub was too high, if one of the fans was catching, whirring at a frequency nearly too high for him to hear, if there was someone standing just behind him. Anything at all that explained the feeling at the back of his neck, both distracting and comforting.

Then the man moved, took a sip of his drink, and the movement was so familiar Gren stood frozen for another moment before he stepped into the bar, walked up to Vicious.

“Long time no see,” he said.

Vicious looked up, and it was definitely Vicious. He'd dyed his hair, he'd swapped out the suit and trenchcoat for jeans and a leather jacket. There was nothing he could have done to stop Gren from recognising him. His presence was a reassuring weight in the back of Gren’s mind. 

“Are you here to finish things?” Gren said, when Vicious didn't speak. At the far end of the pub, Françoise’s husband slipped a hand under the bar, carefully avoided looking their way.

“I thought it was already finished,” Vicious said. He put the glass down, left his hands, empty, on the bar. “But now I think it isn't.”

“What,” said Gren, a trickle of doubt creeping in, “are you going to do about that?”

Vicious raised a hand, rubbed his face. His eyes closed for a moment, and some of the tension seemed to leave his expression. He looked tired. “I think I will just have to come to terms,” he said, “with the fact that this will never be finished.”

Gren grabbed a barstool. “What does that mean?” 

“I quit,” said Vicious.

Gren blinked, sat down. From this perspective, Vicious looked almost lost. Some of the chill had gone from his face, and the hair was unsettling. It made him look young, sickly pale. The colour was badly chosen for anything but hiding who he really was. 

Vicious turned to him and his eyes were the same, grey and serious. 

“Brown hair doesn't suit you,” said Gren. 

“Gren,” Vicious said, “I left. I'm not here on orders.”

“I didn't think you were. You never would have dyed your hair out of anything but personal choice.”

A corner of Vicious’ mouth twitched. “Damn right.”

“When you say you quit,” said Gren, trying to choose his words carefully. After all, they were not alone. He wanted desperately to be alone with Vicious. “What exactly do you mean?”

“I mean that I am dead,” Vicious said, “in the same way that you are dead. And no one is coming to look for either of us. As far as,” he narrowed his eyes, his gaze flicked towards the bartender, “anyone who might care is concerned, you and I are ashes and shrapnel.”

Gren let out a breath. Some of the tension went with it. “Blood in the sand,” he said.

“You're so sentimental,” Vicious said with another twitch of his mouth, a ghost of a smile. Gren felt like he could breathe again.

“Why did you do it?” he asked.

“And you just never stop asking,” Vicious muttered. He raised a hand, ordered another drink. “But not the right questions. What you should be asking is how you know I'm not lying.”

“I trust that you're not,” Gren said, “and I'm much more curious about the why.” He looked up, found Vicious staring at him. His eyes were wide, easing away some of his stern look. “What?” said Gren.

“I thought you didn't trust me,” Vicious murmured. “You probably shouldn't trust me.”

Gren shrugged. He reached over while the other man was distracted, stole his fresh drink. It was vodka, of a sort. “As you said, I'm sentimental. Why did you end your old life?”

“I was tired,” said Vicious. It came out all in a rush, like a gunshot. “I was just tired of it all and I started wondering why I didn't just stop. It seemed like everything had gone to hell and whatever I did only added fuel to the flames. So I walked away.” He took the glass from Gren’s fingers, took a swig.

“That doesn't seem much like you,” Gren said. “I always thought you were the kind of person who'd go out in a blaze of glory.”

Vicious snorted, handed the half empty glass back to Gren. “Pointless.”

“Then what?” Gren asked. “What will you do now?” He found himself leaning forwards, his fingers tense around Vicious’ drink.

“I suppose I’ll stay here for a while,” Vicious said. He looked away. “Assuming you don't mind me encroaching on your territory.”

Gren smiled. He put the drink down, reached over. Vicious’ jacket felt strange under his fingers. It wasn’t the military’s rough cotton, and it wasn’t the wool and linen he had worn the last time they had been together. Gren hesitated, hand on Vicious’ arm. 

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

“It’s been three weeks,” Vicious said, gruffly. 

“I think I managed to fit three years worth of loneliness into that,” said Gren.

“God, you’re sentimental.” Vicious shook his head, leaned into his drink, and reached up, covered Gren’s hand with his own. 

That, at least, felt familiar.

“You should get a job, if you plan on staying here.” Gren smiled, unable to help himself, at the image of Vicious as a farmer. “Sign up on the waiting list for an apartment.”

Vicious made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

“Of course, you can stay with me until you find something better,” said Gren. Vicious’ fingers tightened on his.

On their way back to Gren’s place, he spotted Andrea tending to a wall of assorted fruit trees, all grafted into a single root system. He waved, and she waved back madly, to the point where he started to worry about her falling down.

His arm was hooked through Vicious’, and he knew the news would be all over Cypress before the end of the day. It was a small community. Few people talked about the past, but what they did in the present was subject to ruthless gossip.

Gren watched Vicious. As they walked, as he roamed Gren’s new apartment, briefly touching the photographs on the walls. He watched as the man shrugged out of his jacket and went to stand by the window, looking out into Cypress’ twilight. It was a yellow light, filtered through the dome and the atmosphere within. It made Vicious look no less severe, but that had never scared Gren off. 

Finally, Vicious looked at him. “I remember when we first met,” he said. “You kept staring at me then, too.” He lifted a hand, pointed. “Those same wide eyes. Like you were looking at some sort of hero.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Gren. “I’m just waiting to see how fast you’ll go grey.”

Vicious ducked his head down, made a choking sort of noise. When he looked up, he was smiling.


	7. Sylvanus - Epilogue

“What does Cypress mean?” Vicious asked one night. He was naked in their bed, his hair a weird two-tone brown and silver on the pillow. It was Gren’s bed, technically, but Gren could no longer think of it like that.

“It’s a tree,” Gren said.

Vicious huffed out a breath. “No stories this time?”

Gren stretched, trying to chase the sleep from his limbs. He ended up draped across Vicious, legs tangled with legs, and arm over his chest, fingers against Vicious’ hip. Vicious pulled his hand up, curled his fingers against Gren’s and rested them both against the hollow of his throat, where Gren could feel his heartbeat. 

“Actually,” Gren said after a moment, “I’ve been told it comes from Cyparus, no, Cyparissus. Not one of Jupiter’s, this time. A beautiful young boy who was the lover of the god Sylvanus.”

“Never heard of him,” Vicious said. His voice rumbled under Gren’s hand.

Gren chuckled. “The story goes, the boy had a pet deer. Don’t ask me why it was a deer, I have no clue. One day, while the two were hunting, Sylvanus accidentally killed her and Cyparissus was broken by the loss. Absolutely mad with grief. So to make it all better, Sylvanus turned him into a tree.”

“I don’t see how that’s any better,” said Vicious.

“Maybe,” said Gren, “but I think he meant well.”

Vicious was quiet, so Gren edged closer, pressed his face into Vicious’ hair, and closed his eyes. He liked the way Vicious smelled, and he liked the way his bed smelled of him. It had gotten to the point where the memories of Titan no longer hurt, except in his dreams. Even then, he woke up knowing that Vicious was around, close enough to smell. He was getting used to living this way. For the first time in years, it felt like living again. 

On the edge of sleep, he thought he heard Vicious say: “These old gods, none of them knew when to quit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If anyone wants a bit more fluff of these two living their new lives, let me know.


End file.
